


Breathe Warmth Into Me

by ToAStranger



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-28 00:54:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8424340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger
Summary: Everyone has their own rituals after fighting the big fight.





	

The first thing Stiles does when they stumble into Jackson’s house is kick his frozen shoes off, his teeth chattering, and he strips out of his icy coat and wet sweater and damp socks right there in the foyer.  Jackson’s parents are out of town—New Year’s in Fiji—and Stiles had never been more grateful for their absentee parenting.

Jackson’s place had been closest, after dealing with the Monster of the Week, and Stiles had been _cold_.  The absurdity of it all—a _Yeti_ , an honest to god _Yeti_ —is the only thing keeping him from crumbling into hysterics.  He’s still shaking, a bruise blossoming over his left cheek in purples and blues, and he wraps his arms around himself in order to try and steady his trembling limbs.  It does not work.

A solid, bare chest presses to his back.  Arms wind around him, and a nose presses into his hair.  The position is a familiar one.  Stiles closes his eyes and presses back into the uncanny heat of Jackson’s embrace.  Jackson’s arms curl tighter; a hand eases up under the damp hem of Stiles’ shirt.

Palm flat and fingers long, Jackson makes a lazy path up from Stiles’ navel to rest just over where his heart is still racing under the ladder of his ribs.  He traces each rung and breathes deep.  He lets out a low, pleased rumble when Stiles moves to rest his hands over where Jackson has placed his own.  Stiles shudders in reply.

They’ve done this a half dozen times before.  The first time it had happened, not long after the first time they’d slept together, Stiles had been so caught off guard that he’d slapped Jackson’s hands away.  It had quickly turned into a fight, like most of their casual encounters were wont to do back then; which quickly turned into fucking, like most of their fights were wont to do after they’d popped that particular cherry.

It was only after, when they weren’t so scared after a long night of beast battling, and their sharp tongues were dulled in the sweaty but subdued afterglow, that either of them admitted to, perhaps, needing to touch that way in the wake of particular extracurriculars they both seemed to find themselves caught up in.  So the next time Jackson tried to touch him, gentle and needy and quiet, Stiles did not push him away—even if he did flinch at the absence of their usual vitriol.  And the time after that, Stiles didn’t even hesitate before pressing his face into the soft skin of Jackson’ neck.

Now, with Jackson’s thumb dragging back and forth over the jut of his hip where Stiles’ snow heavy pants have ridden low, Stiles goes pliant and easy in his grip.  Jackson dips forward, nudges at his cheek, and hums when Stiles’ eyes flutter behind his eyelids.

“You hungry?” Stiles finally asks, voice cracking as Jackson presses his forehead to the juncture between where Stiles’ neck and ends and his shoulder begins.

“You’re cold,” Jackson replies.

“Hot coco?”

“We’re out of those little marshmallows.”

Twisting around, Stiles slips his arms back around Jackson burying his nose against his chest.  “Damn,” he mumbles.

“We should get out of these clothes.” Jackson’s hands are already pushing Stiles’ shirt up.  “Unless you want to be a stubborn asshole about it.”

Stiles leans back, looks up, eyes narrowed.  “Pot; kettle.”

“C’mon,” Jackson rolls his eyes.  “I’m offering to get naked for you.  While you’re naked.  It’s a win-win.”

“I’m beginning to think you only want me for my body.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Jackson peels Stiles’ shirt up and over his head, hands coming back down in order to catch his jaw as he leans in.  “I want you for your mouth too.”

They kiss.  It’s long and slow and easy.  Jackson’s mouth, his entire body, is like fire against Stiles’.  It leaves his skin prickling; his body quaking.

Fingers spidering up over Jackson’s back, Stiles seeks out flesh.  Jackson’s right; he’s still _very_ cold.

“Technically,” Stiles breathes when they part, lids heavy, breath heavier.  “My mouth is _part_ of my body.”

“Stiles,” Jackson sighs, already scooping him up; coaxing Stiles’ legs around his hips, big hands steady at Stiles’ lower back, at his thigh.  “Shut up.”

They hazy light of winter is blue on their pale skin.  It casts long shadows on the hardwood floors as Jackson carries Stiles from the foyer to the living room.  He sets him down on the edge of the couch, chuckling when Stiles hisses at the cold press of leather against his ass as Jackson works him out of his jeans.  Stiles flops back against the cushions when Jackson finishes, disheveled and shivering.

As Jackson strips, dim grey light plays and peeks through the vast curtains that cloak the far window.  It casts dancing images, flurries of figures, over the long lean lines of muscle.  Outside, there is snow falling.

When they are both bare, Jackson lowers himself over Stiles.  He’s taller and broader, and he covers Stiles from head to toe.  Stiles feels small, pressed between the couch and Jackson’s hulking figure.  He remembers choking on his own envy the first time he saw him naked.  Here, with the rigid lines and graceful sinew flush with his own lithe limbs, it is a comfort.

Jackson leans up on one elbow to tug the throw over the both of them.  It smells fresh, like detergent, and Stiles wants to hide his face in it and sleep for a week.  Instead, Jackson cups his jaw and tips his face back.  He frowns, and Stiles wonders at what, until Jackson presses his thumb to his cheek and Stiles’ face explodes in pain.  Sucking in a breath between his teeth, Stiles winces and turns away.  Jackson makes a noise that sounds like an apology before he leans in and presses a furtive, ginger kiss to the highline of Stiles’ cheekbone.

“You hurt anywhere else?”

“Well, if you’re putting your mouth on things, I think my dick might’ve gotten caught in the crossfire.” Stiles murmurs.

Jackson huffs out a breath, jaw flexing.  “I’ve got three new episodes of _Hoarders_ on my DVR.”

“ _Babe_ ,” Stiles drapes his arms over Jackson’s shoulders.  “Why didn’t you _say_ so?”

For the better part of two hours, Jackson doesn’t move from where he is laying over Stiles.  He keeps his face pressed to Stiles’ clavicle, taking long, deep breaths while petting at Stiles’ hip.

Stiles dozes, he thinks, between episodes.  His mind is plagued by images, like it always is after a fight, that is only lulled by Jackson’s occasional movements.  He keeps missing the parts in the show where old white women inevitably lose their cool over tea towels they picked up at a thrift shop thirteen years ago being tossed into the discard pile.  At some point, he wakes to Jackson grousing about how much of a middle aged woman Stiles is, but his complaints are lost somewhere between the kisses he keeps placing over Stiles’ collarbones.

It isn’t until sometime in the early evening—the On Demand menu screen droning in the background, yellow light from some movie ad highlighting the ends of Jackson’s hair in gold—that Stiles rouses fully.  He’s warm.  Jackson is still curled around him, over him.  Stiles think he might be sleeping.

He takes Jackson’s hand in his.  Lacing their fingers together, he brings it up to his mouth.  He presses fleeting little kisses to the tips of Jackson’s thumb, forefinger, pinky.  Above him, Jackson stirs.

Lifting his head, Jackson blinks down at him.  His smile is slow; lazy and pleased.  As Stiles moves to kiss the heel of Jackson’s palm, Jackson leans in and catches his mouth.  It’s chaste.  Sweet.

One leads to another.  Then another.  Each kiss lingering just that fraction longer, until their lips meet and part and they share the warm taste of longing between one another. 

Large hands ease down Stiles’ sides until they find his hips.  They squeeze, then pull, and Stiles loses and moan somewhere in his throat when his breath catches there.  Jackson shifts, finding home between Stiles’ thighs, before lifting and rocking back.  Stiles follows, bracing at Jackson’s shoulders, knees coming to rest on either side of Jackson’s thighs.  Long, strong fingers dig into Stiles’ hips.  He coaxes Stiles close; coaxes him down.

A sweet sound trips its way out of Stiles’ mouth and into Jackson’s own.  Jackson echoes it, straining upward, and Stiles presses a hand to his chest and _pushes_ until Jackson _gives_ and leans back against eh soft cushions in order to peer up at Stiles as he begins the slow motions of yearning.  He rocks, ruts, and Jackson rubs up and down his thighs as they share sharp, short breaths and hushed, needy little sounds.  Stiles head lulls back, friction like fire between them, and Jackson is lost in the heady sensation; the sight of him baring his throat.

They don’t last long.  They don’t need to.

Jackson loses grip first.  He groans, bucking up twice, before leaning in to bury his face against Stiles’ chest.  Then he reaches between them, and Stiles keens.  Stiles’ nails, blunt as they are, bite into the skin of Jackson’s chest, at his nape, and Stiles gasps out a trembling noise as he spills out over Jackson’s fingers.

In the quiet, they slump together to catch their breath.  Stiles’ pulse is quick at his throat, and Jackson places his lips to the _thump-thump_ of it.  He pets at his hips where he has left his touch.  Tentative, gentle fingers card through the short hair at the back of Jackson’s head.

“How’s your cheek?” Jackson presses the question under Stiles’ jaw.

“Better.”

“Already?”

When Jackson pulls back, Stiles smiles, dopey and content. “Well, I’m preoccupied.”

Humming, Jackson leans up and kisses the corner of his mouth.  “I can be particularly distracting.”

“Asshole.” Stiles pinches him.

“You love me.”

Stiles’ face goes soft.  “Yeah.  Bed?”

“Couch.”

He pushes Stiles back against the cushions.  He uses one of their shirts, probably Stiles’, to clean them off and then drapes himself over Stiles’ body, tucking his nose just behind his ear.  His hands slip around until Stiles is wrapped up in his arms.  Stiles hides a smile in his hair.

“Imma watch Triple D.  Objections?”

Jackson grumbles but doesn’t swat Stiles’ hand when he fumbles with the remote.  “Just keep it down.  He’s obnoxious.”

The episode is something somewhere in the Midwest.  Stiles falls asleep halfway through Guy Fieri waxing poetic about a pulled pork sandwich.  Jackson’s breath is constant and steady against his skin.  It grounds him. 

Stiles doesn’t dream.  


End file.
